


fifty words for murder

by vulfen (SublimeDiscordance)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Implied Twincest, M/M, Mentioned Background Relationships, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Polyamorous Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 17:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12085749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/vulfen
Summary: Every night, Jackson dreams of the same thing.





	fifty words for murder

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some unspecified time in the future after the show ends, probably. Characters included are based loosely on ~season 5? I dunno I'm so behind on the show. I haven't watched any season 6 at all. 
> 
> Please note the polyamorous pack and implied twincest tags. They are there for a reason. Assume that pretty much almost any slash relationship (including femslash) you can think of is actively happening somewhere in the background. Sadly, this story does not focus on all of them. But! On the plus side. No one has died or left for b******t reasons. :)
> 
> Title from "Victorious" by Panic! At the Disco

Someone once told you that dreams are your mind’s way of dealing with shit. And not run-of-the-mill shit, no: capital-S Shit. That they’re how your brain processes all the things you won’t let yourself think about otherwise. That dreams are how you work through the mental and emotional baggage that not even your conscious mind wants to touch with a fifty foot pole.

It was probably Lydia or Stiles.

You’re pretty sure they also said that’s why, quote, _Everyone has sex dreams, Jackson, about everyone—friends, enemies, rivals, whatever._ Because, _apparently_ , every relationship is just sexual tension hidden behind a veil of some other emotion, waiting to explode into a mess of heavy breathing and bodily fluids.

Yeah, that sounds more like Stiles.

Which means it makes sense that it’s bullshit.

You don’t have sex dreams about your friends, enemies, rivals, or even your whatevers. You don’t dream about your faceless parents, beckoning to you, never pleased no matter how well you do. You don’t dream about a happier life, about the future you sometimes wish you could’ve had. Not anymore, anyway.

No, every time you dream, you dream the same thing.

There are screams. Gunshots. Flares of pain along your limbs and in your chest, insignificant like the pricks of dulled rose thorns. Colors dulled to near-gray, save for the splashes of red that appear along the walls as you glide through the blur of motion and flashing lights like a wraith. You are cold, so cold, but your hands are warm enough they feel like they’re burning.

You hear _his_ voice, the howl of wind in a thunderstorm, urging you on, pushing at your limbs, pulling, twisting—

And then there is silence, broken only by a faint dripping sound.

Your fingers are sticky.

Your teeth ache.

 _Please_.

He begs, screams, prays as you wrench the car door from its hinges. As teeth and talons sink into him, ripping and tearing and—

And you wake up.

You don’t scream. You don’t yell. You don’t make any noise except maybe a single, shuddering breath. You don’t curl into a ball, or start shaking, or cry. You don’t jump out of bed and race to the bathroom to puke your guts out, trying to rid your body of the black poison swimming in your veins in lieu of blood.

You don’t do anything.

After all, you have years of practice under your belt.

You wake up, and do your best to get the heartbeat you can feel-hear-feel hammering at your sternum to slow. Try to keep lungs from sucking down air as if you were a fish on dry land. Try to quiet the corner of your mind that is still screaming, that is still convinced your fingers are sticking together with dried blood.

The single breath you allow yourself is followed by another, only this time you slowly roll onto your side and tilt your head towards the sheets. Though the pack house has about six bedrooms—not counting the fold-outs or other cubbies that have been reworked into a sleeping corner on an odd night here or there—no one has actually claimed a bedroom as _theirs_ yet. Every night seems to be a lottery of sleeping arrangements, depending on the mood. Some nights, all of you—all _twenty_ , and jesus christ isn’t that something to ponder sometimes—will make a pile of limbs and bodies on the living room floor, tangled in blankets and pillows, and call it done. Some nights, like tonight, you all split up one way or another, grouping up as needed or wanted. And, since no one has claimed a bedroom, the room choices from night to night seem to be almost random. The important part, though, is that the rooms and their contents end up smelling like, well, everyone.

Given that the scent of _pack_ in the pillow does more to calm you than anything else you’ve tried on your own, you’re not entirely sure this is entirely accidental. Wouldn’t put it past Scott. He can seem clueless at times—hell, _is_ clueless most of the time—but, every now and then, he notices things. Actually does something halfway intelligent.

“Jacks?” there’s a sleepy rumble at your back, then a broad arm wraps itself over you and tugs gently. Slides you until your back is against an equally-broad chest. “Hey, you okay?”

“Fuck off, Aiden,” you retort, having to swallow the dry lump in your throat before the words will come out right. “Not like you fucking care.”

There’s a low hum at your back, then Aiden’s lips press themselves to the base of your neck. They’re warm in a way that the rest of your skin isn’t. Or maybe it’s your imagination.

“You had the kanima dream again?”

You blink. Blink again with a frustrated huff as your sight blurs. You don’t scrub at your eyes, but you do grind your teeth as you force the heat at the corners of vision back until you can see the room again in the pale, shifting moonlight.

This bedroom is on the corner of the house, and both walls have windows that allow moonlight to sneak inside, filtering through the slowly swaying branches of the tree that towers over this side of the house. Derek had argued it should be taken down, that it posed a risk if it fell, but Stiles and Danny had gotten together with Deaton and done...something. You don’t really care what. The point is that the damn tree won’t fall. Even though its movements are minute, you can hear the rustling of the leaves, if only faintly. A constant drone. You’d like to think that they drown out the sounds of your memories and let you sleep on nights like these.

Yeah. Right.

“Jackson?”

A warm nose finds the place where your neck and skull meet, nudging gently but insistently. And, while you might've been back in Beacon Hills for over a year at this point, _this…_

This makes an unwelcome pressure build deep in your chest. Makes imaginary claws rake furrows down the inside of your ribs. It's too much. Too much _caring_. Too much _feeling_. Too much...it's just, _too much._

“I said fuck off,” you grumble, rolling until you dislodge Aiden’s arm. Prop yourself up into sitting, legs shifting to dangle over the edge.

Aiden makes a low sound that might be somewhere between a huff and a sigh, and the bed shifts. Sheets rustle. His hand finds your spine, rubbing soft but insistent patterns between your vertebrae. The pressure in your chest throbs, out of sync with your heartbeat. You stare resolutely out the window. Count the leaves you can see from here. Make it to fifty seven before a small gust of wind blows through, shaking everything enough that you lose your place.

“You're not a monster, Jackson.”

The pressure doubles. Redoubles. Heat rushes to your eyes again, but this time you're prepared for it. Can mould it into something _right_ instead of what it's trying to be. Your eyes warm in an entirely different, altogether too-familiar way.

When you snarl and turn, its to have your own glowing eyes meet Aiden’s, electric blue clashing with electric blue.

“You don't _fucking—_ ” you start, words hissed, but Aiden talks over you, voice annoyingly calm, annoyingly soft.

“I do. I know you. You're _not_ a monster.”

You snarl again, turning away as you make to stand. Aiden’s arms wrap themselves around your waist, catch you not three inches off the bed and haul you back. You breathe audibly through your nose, reminding yourself that the hot sludge in your veins does not control you, no matter how easy it would probably be to turn and slash Aiden’s meddling fucking throat—

“If you were a monster,” he continues, seemingly unperturbed, “then you'd do what your instincts are telling you to do right now. You’d reach behind yourself and take a chunk out of my neck with your bare hands. You'd do it without blinking. But you, _Jackson_ ,” he half-whispers your name, and some ridiculous part of your mind wants to point out it half-sounds like a prayer, “you _care_. After all this time, you still care about the people you were forced to kill. Even though you had no control, even though you're not to blame—”

There’s a moment where you're not even aware of your body’s movements, just that they're happening. Time vanishes for the blink of an eye, and when it returns you've somehow broken Aiden’s grip on your waist and are instead straddling him, hand wrapped around his windpipe, claws digging into the tender flesh there. The pressure in your chest grows so strong, you could almost swear you're about to burst, nothing left behind but a rust-colored smear on the sheets.

Aiden’s eyes are still glowing, and if it weren't impossible you'd swear they were brighter now.

“You don't even _fucking_ know what you're—”

“Then kill me.”

Everything freezes. The pressure in your chest bursts, and you feel deflated, shattered in its wake. Your breath stutters in your lungs. Your blood turns to ice shards, tearing its way through your body with every heartbeat. You can feel Aiden’s pulse through his neck, through _the hand you have on his neck_. It does not stutter. It does not speed up. Your claws have extended themselves, dimpling the thin skin.

“If you're the monster you say you are, then kill me. Prove it.”

There's a horrible, nauseating moment where your brain actually thinks it through. Thinks about how it would feel, Aiden’s blood slick between your fingers, just like _theirs_ had been. About how he would struggle, gasping, gagging, choking on his own blood, just like _they_ had. How the struggles would cease and the light would fade from his eyes, leaving them flat and—

You recoil so violently you end up falling out of the bed, shoulder thumping loudly against the thick carpet. You don't even have time to reorient yourself before Aiden is there, taking you in his arms and just...holding you.

“You're _not_ a monster.”

You don't fight his words or his grip this time. Just allow yourself to be held. Breathe in Aiden’s scent.

(You might lean into it a little bit, but that's only because Aiden is warm and you're only wearing underwear and jesus werewolves might run hotter than average but that doesn't mean you need to keep the whole house so fucking _low_ all the time it's a fucking _miracle_ none of the humans have complained yet.)

(And if you nuzzle into his neck, it's because the scent of _pack_ he radiates helps. That's all, god damnit.)

“I've met monsters,” Aiden continues, the sudden sound jarring you, but not enough that you actually show it. “Hell, I've _been_ one. Monsters kill and don't care. But you, Jackson, even when it's not your fault—”

“That's fucking debatable,” you hate how mushy your voice sounds. You can't seem to stop it, either.

“— _even when it's not your fault_ ,” Aiden practically steamrollers over your words, “you still care. Even,” he nips at the shell of your ear, a laugh hidden in the smile you can feel against the side of your face, in the warmth of his breath, “even if you're too obtuse to admit it to yourself, you care. Hell, you even care about a monster like me.”

You have the urge to say something back. Something nice and pretty like, ‘You're not a monster either,’ but it falls short in your throat because, well. The twins may have joined the pack, and they may listen to Scott, but you don't doubt for a second that, if they felt it helped the pack, they would tear someone limb from limb. Hell, they might even sleep well that night.

You don't question this thought, and never have, because it's exactly the same way you feel. And maybe that's what scares you the most. As much as you might care, you would still gladly murder for your pack.

You'd hate yourself—well, _more_ —afterward, but you'd do it.

Eventually, looking down at your hands where they've clasped themselves in your lap, you settle on, “Someone has to look after your stupid ass when Danny and Ethan want alone time.”

Aiden laughs, the sound soft, muted against your skin.

“Aww, I love you too, Jacks.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” you elbow him in the side, “fucking _shut up_.”

“I’ll take that as an ‘I love you, too.’”

Your face flames, and you elbow Aiden again, harder this time. If he minds, he gives no sign of it.

“Just—jesus, if you're so lovey dovey and shit, go join your brother. I'm sure he and Danny wouldn't mind you being a fucking moron all over them.”

Aiden hums and squeezes you that much tighter.

“Nah. I think I'm right where I'm needed.”

“Whatever,” you concede, a weight lifting off your chest, “but if you wanna cuddle that badly, then what I _need_ is to be in that bed. I'm not going to fucking try to sleep on the goddamn floor.”

It's only with the practice you already have containing your reactions that you don't make a noise when Aiden sweeps you up like some sort of goddamn damsel. He deposits you gently on the sheets with a small smile, before climbing onto the mattress and pausing, still perched on his knees.

“Do you want me to get anyone else?” he asks, leaning down to nose at your scalp. “I know Scott wouldn't mind—”

“No.” You frown. “I don't want Scott _fucking_ McCall going all Alpha on me.” 

“Fair,” Aiden nods, head tilting to the side. “Isaac?”

“ _No._ ” It maybe comes out more forceful than you intended, and something might shift in your guts that makes your head spin, but you try not to think about it. “Isaac would just go get Scott because he's useless otherwise and getting Scott is his first answer to everything.”

(And your visceral reaction obviously has nothing to do with the fact that you dream about murdering Lahey's father every night. Obviously.)

Aiden chuckles, unperturbed. You wonder what it means that he apparently laughs at you now when you're being a bit of a dick—or even a lot of a dick. The way Scott and Isaac and well...everyone else...fuck. Whatever.

“Aside from how _wrong_ that is, okay. Whatever you say. What about the kids? Mason and Corey?”

“No.”

“Alright,” he concedes. “What about Liam and Brett? They both adore you so I'm sure they—”

“ _No_.” This time it comes out more forcefully than you intend, and you look away from Aiden’s searching gaze. He _hmm_ s thoughtfully before,

“Erica and Boyd?”

A swell of emotions rises up in your throat, pushes at your sternum. You shake your head wordlessly, not entirely trusting your voice.

“Lydia and Allison?”

You almost say yes to that—mostly for Lydia, but you know for a _fact_ she would insist Allison come along too—but manage to swallow it down at the last second. They deserve their time together. And, though it makes something burn in your chest to admit it, what you really want is—

“Can we just...just you? For tonight?”

Aiden’s smile is quick, but not as quick as the firm press of his lips against yours. You return the kiss without even thinking about it, moving to the side to nuzzle into Aiden’s neck instead of pulling away after. Can feel him doing the same as he finally settles down around you.

“Anything you need, Jacks.”

Neither of you speak for a long time. Aiden makes a soft grunt as he readjusts your arm to a more comfortable position for his ribs. You don’t _sigh_ , but you do let out a rush of air at one point, switching up the angle of your head so that your breath isn’t smacking you back in the face.

The relative silence isn’t awkward, though. If anything, it's almost disturbingly, domestically, comfortable. In no time at all, you feel yourself drifting back to sleep.

This time, there are no dreams waiting for you.

 


End file.
